The back lawn, since my absence, is a field
so I have worked to cut it down to size
but as I try to pull out trails of bindweed,
and dig up couch that's smothering the roses

an autumn leaf, a trefoil, gently glazed,
jumps just in front of my rake's steel tines.
I stop and gaze - the frog stays very still,
brown burnets flutter over singing wrens.

After all those years of work in London
this place has wrapped itself around my shoulders
as I look up towards the Wicklow mountains
or count the ships that sail beyond Bray Harbour,

contented to be over on my own,
although aware that it's from you I learned
close observation of all natural things -
I watch the frog and wait for your return.

Rosy Wilson